


all those years ago

by cowboylakay



Series: years past, it remains [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Survives the Mountain Fight, Epilogue, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Reunion, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboylakay/pseuds/cowboylakay
Summary: Arthur is back in Saint Denis, in search of a man that means more to him than words could describe.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: years past, it remains [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857202
Comments: 12
Kudos: 126





	all those years ago

Saint Denis, even after all these years, is still the nastiest, most rotten city Arthur has had the misfortune of ever stepping foot in.

The city is like a continuous cycle of hydras, with powerful men being replaced by more powerful men, then those powerful men begetting even more powerful men, until the city is so choked that the pollution from the factories is the least of their breathing problems. Arthur knows all about those, anyways.

He coughs once, not because of the deterioration of his lungs, but because of the thick, soupy air of the bayou not a dog’s piss from the city. He thinks that Saint Denis is just as grim now as it was before, if not more, but then he thinks back to that day so many years ago, remembers the way the man who raised him bled out on the street before the bank, and decides that the city couldn’t possibly have gotten any worse than that.

“Okay..” He mumbles, looking around as he takes out the folded sheet in his journal and reads the words again. “Should be simple enough.”

He urges Rosaria into a trot, making his way through the city, mindful of where to turn and where to avoid. He’s aware of the new gang presence in the city, Italian mobsters dressed in fancy suits and wearing their hair with almost too much pomade, not too different from Bronte’s men, so he avoids the parts of the streets where he sees a good concentration of them.

The commotion is loud enough to hear from the streets leading into the slums. He hears the raucous cheering and booing of a bloodthirsty audience, as well as the sounds of fists meeting flesh and pained grunting, then a particularly heavy thud, before finally being followed by the voice of an announcer.

“The Panama Pugilist wins! Winners, come to the side to get your winnings, and losers... better luck next time!”

There’s a mix of boastful cheering and huffs of anger as the crowd slowly disperses. Arthur has half a mind to hope; the information he’d gotten was unreliable at best, but it was the best lead he’d found in the last eight years that wasn’t a vague description or a poster sighting by a bounty hunter, so he figured it was worth a shot. As the last of the crowd dissipates, he hitches Rosaria a few ways off before approaching the bookie.

“If you’ve got a problem with the fight, take it elsewhere, and if you’re planning _to_ fight, come back tomorrow,” The bookie says without looking up, writing in his ledger swiftly. An ancient part of Arthur compares the bookie hunched over his ledger to Strauss. “Otherwise, get lost. We’re done for today.”

“Actually, I was lookin’ for one of your fighters,” Arthur says, causing the bookie to look up at him with a sharp look in his eye. In this moment, he wishes he still had his hat to take off and put to his chest. “Large, Native feller. Not to fight, I just wanted to talk to him, we was... friends, back in the day.”

“Friends,” The bookie repeats, eyeing him with open suspicion. Arthur nods once, doing his best to look as sincere as he could. It seems to work well enough, because the bookie’s harsher glare changes into a displeased expression. “Fine. He’s got an apartment not far from here, if you leave through there and take a left; it’ll be the green building, on the second floor. Don’t even bother to try to rough him up, he brings in a lotta business and he can _definitely_ take you.”

“Ain’t he lost the fight?” Arthur asks, because he can’t help himself.

The bookie glares at him again, a clear dismissal and a threat. Arthur raises his hands placatingly, before turning towards the direction the bookie pointed him to, mindful not to bump into anyone as he speed-walks his way through. That’s another thing he hates about Saint Denis— you couldn’t so much as walk five steps before stepping all over someone’s business and their business’ business.

He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s practically shaking with hope and excitement, or that his legs are taking him to his destination much faster than intended. He also doesn’t acknowledge the way his heart almost beats out of his chest as he steps into the lobby of the green building.

He does, however, acknowledge the clawing fear and worry creeping up his spine at the prospect of this being another lost lead, or worse, that Charles didn’t want to see him.

“Get yourself together, Morgan,” He mutters to himself. Breathing in and out, he flexes his hands a bit, before reaching over towards the door and knocking twice.

He feels almost like an unconfident gentleman caller, all nerves as he waits outside the door of his beau, but the thought of comparing Charles to a feminine, fragile woman is about as surreal as comparing a pebble to a stone fortress.

“Who is it?” A muffled, rough voice asks from behind the door. Arthur immediately recognises it, and is so caught up in the whirl of feelings that comes with the realisation that _this is real, he’s here,_ that he almost forgets to respond.

“It’s me,” He croaks out, pathetically overcome by emotion. There’s an audible pause, a standstill, as if time slowed itself down, seconds dragging on for minutes, before the door creaks open.

He’s beaten, he’s bruised, he’s definitely bleeding from several places, and he looks like he’s been through the shit and the shitter, but it’s _Charles,_ so he looks perfect to Arthur in any which way.

“Arthur?” Charles whispers, stock still as he holds onto the doorframe. His eyes, brown and honest, are wide open, mouth parted in an expression of pure shock. Arthur manages a weak smile, already feeling tears prick at his eyes as if he were an old woman.

“That’s me,” He says weakly, because what can he say? _Yes, it’s me, back from the dead, I missed you so much, not a day has passed where I didn’t long to see you, I wish I’d told you enough times that I love you, it is_ so good _to see you again._

Charles seems to recover from his frozen shock, and opens the door wider. “Come on inside,” He says, though his voice is a little bit more airy and shaky than usual. In the back of his mind, Arthur wonders if he even has the right to remember what the ‘usual’ was.

He steps inside, Charles making space for him as he closes the door. He turns then to look at Charles, really see him, and take in every detail of him. His heart hurts at the idea of this being the last time he’s allowed to do so.

Charles is injured, in a number of places. He took a hard beating— splotches of darkening skin and blood still on him, with cuts and slashes over his arms. His face looks less injured, only sporting a dark bruise on one cheek. His knuckles are covered with blood, but whether it was his own or the other guy’s, Arthur isn’t sure. He’s maintained that firm, large stature of his, though he‘s a little more on the muscled side now than Arthur remembers before. He looks good, healthy even. His eyes are on him.

Arthur takes a careful step forward, not too different from how he would approach a spooked horse. He controls his movements, trying not to come off as too hopeful or, god forbid, demanding. Then, something breaks in Charles’ gaze .

Before long, Charles takes two strides towards him, closing the space as he lifts both of his hands, cupping Arthur’s cheeks in his hands and looking at him with a wild, incredulous expression. Arthur instantly softens, leaning into the touch as his mouth quirks up into a smile.

“You’re...” Charles begins, but then cuts himself off. He searches Arthur’s face more, but for what, Arthur can’t say. Maybe signs of the sickness. Maybe signs that Arthur was still the man he loved all those years ago. He wonders what Charles will find.

“Yeah,” He says, cheeks warm under Charles’ calloused palms. “Surprised me too. Never thought I’d see another day,” He tells him, looking away for a moment in contemplation. Would it be too far? Oh, to hell with it. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

Charles is silent for awhile, long enough for Arthur to think maybe he did overstep, maybe he did misjudge the touch as something similar to the kindness with which Charles treated him with before, but then he’s moving, and suddenly warm, chapped lips are on his own, tasting slightly of blood but tasting entirely of _Charles._

It’s hard not to lose himself in it entirely. He tries to maintain a level head, but he surrenders almost immediately after Charles pulls him closer until they’re chest to bloody chest. He kisses like a man starved, because he was, and holds like a man aching, because he is. Never in a hundred years did he think he’d get this chance again, and now that it’s happening, he thinks that the world could crumble and dissolve around them but he wouldn’t ever let go of Charles.

Unfortunately, as poetic and as true as the sentiment was, they both need air. They separate to catch their breaths, Arthur leaning his forehead against Charles as he laughs wetly. Any shred of doubt has been completely wiped away by Charles’ initiation, replaced with a sort of glee and giddiness only found in young couples, not from two men of certain distinguished ages.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” Arthur breathes out, the smile on his face so wide that it hurts his cheeks. Charles breaks too, grinning so hard that he’s got the sun, the moon, and the stars beat by miles.

“If it was half as much as I wanted this, wanted _you,_ I think I get the picture,” Charles tells him, and _Christ,_ there is nothing Arthur wouldn’t do for him. “Sorry I got blood on your shirt. I just got back from...”

“I know, ‘s how I found you,” Arthur says, emboldened as he presses another kiss to the corner of Charles’ mouth. “And don’t worry about it. It ain’t mine.”

Charles laughs a little at that, even though it really wasn’t funny, but Arthur laughs too, caught up in Charles’ joy.  He kisses Arthur again, less urgent as the first one but just as overwhelming, just as all-encompassing and _real._ Arthur melts into the kiss like ice to a furnace, consumed and possessed by it, by Charles.

They kiss like starved men, because they were, and they kiss like men in love, because they are.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to all of your guys’ support on the last fic, i ended up continuing it! sorta! this is a prequel. maybe i’ll write more of this au.
> 
> edit: made some minor changes! nothing that changes the core of the story, though.
> 
> i’m [lakay](https://cowboylakay.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
